


What's Up, Lonely?

by jojothecr



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love, Written in 2009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojothecr/pseuds/jojothecr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha wants Jensen, but Jensen wants Jared. And Jared's in love with Genevieve... There's no real happy ending. Okay? Sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Up, Lonely?

It’s dark when Misha makes his way across the quiet, abandoned set. The only light illuminating the late Friday evening is the sporadically scattered lamps, and the passing car lights as the individual members of the cast and crew roll out of the parking lot, towards the two free, non- _Supernatural_ days. Tiny grains of red sand crunch under his boots, leading him over the barely visible path that slops slowly down to the asphalt painted with white lines.

Lost in his thoughts, and tossing the car keys in his hand in a thoughtless, mechanical manner, Misha comes around when he spots a darkened figure sitting on the brick wall, partly hidden in the shadows of the tall trees. One look in the opposite direction, where Jared’s unlocking his SUV with a quiet, beeping noise of the central locking, holding the door open for Genevieve, and Misha sighs, changing the course of his steps, and Friday night.

 

“How long?” He asks when he stops beside Jensen and leans against the wall, making the poor guy start up in dismay as his voice breaks the silence and Jensen’s musing so abruptly, and practically out of nowhere.

“Huh?” Jensen asks brightly, dragging his gaze off the scene in front of him to meet Misha’s briefly, unwillingly and as though it’s the most difficult thing anyone could ask him to do at that moment.

“How long does it last?”

“How long does what last?”

“This.” Misha says, turning his head to look and point at the parking lot that Jared’s just leaving; the ruby tail lamps of his car flashing them both goodbye. “This ache inside. This feeling that makes you believe you’re gonna burst from within in a second, unless something happens. Something changes... Until he lifts his eyes up to yours, and sees. Finally sees.”

It’s a moment, barely a second, as something flashes in Jensen’s eyes; panic and wonder, and pain, so truthful and naked, it clenches Misha’s heart. But then Jensen blinks, shutting off and hiding, denying everything he’d never admit he allowed to be seen with a confused and rather annoyed scowl. “I’ve no idea what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”

“You’re not gonna make it any easier for me, are you?” Misha questions as he settles his eyes back on Jensen, who arches his eyebrow questioningly, and tilts his head to the side slightly in return. “Guess that means _no_ ,” Misha states with a bitter chuckle, pulling himself up onto the wall to sit beside the other man.

Jensen remains silent, staring across the abandoned parking lot, and further ahead. His mind’s obviously a few miles further ahead. His hand curls around the thread on the hood of his sweatshirt, tugging at it, twirling it around his fingers and slipping it through them, mindlessly and a little distractingly.

“You’re an amazing actor, you know?” Misha starts slowly, hesitantly; trying not to tip toe around what he wants to stay, but not intending to hurt the blonde man with his concern and prying either.

Jensen looks up at him questioningly, obviously wondering where Misha’s heading, and what ‘but’ is about to follow.

“You really are,” Misha continues, keeping Jensen’s curious vision firmly, without wavering. “People don’t say it just because it’s polite, or because it’s expected from them – but because you really are talented... And your most powerful weapon, your gift, is your eyes. But,” he pauses, smiling at Jensen’s resigned _I knew there was a ‘but’_ expression. “At the same time, they’re your biggest weakness.”

Now Jensen’s eyes slide closed on a quick blink, and move from Misha’s face down to the overgrown grass, weed, and bedstraw worming way over the first few inches of the dark asphalt, and over the wall, up to Jensen’s feet, which dangle lazily in the air, kicking the cracked, partly shattered bricks.

“They show so much of what you feel. Everything you want so desperately hide... The way you look at him when you forget to pretend, or to play the part you’re playing before him... it says more than if you yelled. So much love and so much pain. It’s... honestly breaking my heart every time I spot that look.”

“So?” Jensen demands, talking to the untied lace on his right sneaker. His voice is cold, slightly irritated, but sounding rather tired and hurt instead.

“So, you don’t think you should do something ‘bout it?”

“Like gouge my eyes out maybe?”

“Yeah,” Misha snorts, “That’s exactly what I was thinking, smartass.”

“Do you-” Jensen starts after a silence on both parts for a few minutes but trails off, as if searching his mind for the right words. As if asking himself whether he really wants to discuss this topic. With Misha. “Do you think... he knows?”

Of all the questions Misha could almost see swirling in Jensen’s head and reflecting in the thoughtful lines drawn across his forehead, this definitely isn’t the one he was expecting to be asked.

The tone of Jensen’s voice, along with the content of the inquiry itself, make Jensen sound like a thirteen year old school girl; all the nervousness and expectations of first love. Wondering whether _he_ ’s looking when he looks away, whether he’s being too obvious, and it’s cute. Especially since Jensen’s not thirteen, but over thirty. A beautiful, grown up man. And still so shy and uncertain.

“I think he’s the only one who doesn’t,” Misha smiles sadly.

Jensen nods in unspoken acceptance, visibly blushing even in the shadows. Then he shakes his head and lets out a deep sigh.

“Hey, what you’re doing here anyway?” Misha questions, intending to change the subject and stop pouring salt into Jensen’s bared, open wounds, realizing he’d had different plans as how to spend Friday night. Definitely better notions too. More comfortable than sitting on the cold stones on the set, from they all usually can’t wait to clear out. “You’re not heading home today?”

“I am,” Jensen replies, sounding suddenly tired. “Cliff said he’d be a little late.”

“And you didn’t go with Jared?”

“Didn’t want to be in the way,” he mumbles, gazing to the gateway of the parking lot again, as though waiting for Jared to magically re-appear.

“Wanna lift then? Or grab some beer with me?”

“I don’t think I’d be a good company tonight,” Jensen smiles a little, his gaze flickering up at Misha, who only shrugs.

“That’s fine... I’m not looking for company either. Just need a drink. I really need to shake the scenes off of myself today.”

“Yeah, they were kinda tough.”

“Right. So?”

“Alright,” Jensen nods eventually. “I mean, why not? Okay.”

“Okay,” Misha jumps off the wall, hastily remembering where he put the car keys earlier.  
He heads for his car without looking back, knowing that Jensen is following because he can hear the soles of his shoes thumping on the asphalt. He looks up as he pushes the key into the lock, noticing Jensen’s face enlightened by the odd green-blue light of his cell phone, as his fingers run over the buttons, sending a message to their stray driver, and sighs at the private and almost invisible sadness reflected in Jensen’s eyes.

* * *  
Six beers, and two Jared-soaked monologues (which Misha surprisingly doesn’t mind listening to) later, Jensen reaches for one of the newly served bottles, pulling it up to himself.

Misha watches as Jensen’s fingers close around the bottleneck, lifting the bottle off the stained, blackish wood of the bar table, tattooed with newish and old rings from the bottom of beer bottles and flasks of more expansive drinks, and burnt out, ashy spots from cigarette butts.

“He’s just so, y’know... _special_ ,” Jensen mutters with a sluggish wave of his hand, before he takes a long swig of his beer, wincing as the cold liquid slips down his throat. “So unbelievably carin’ and lovin’... And open like a little child, like he’s just convinced that the world’s one big happy place...”

Jensen rambles on, but Misha’s too distracted by the single drop of beer lingering on Jensen’s plump bottom lip to listen, to follow Jensen’s words, which seem to just brush his ears, without actually making any impact. He’s sure he actually moans quietly when Jensen’s tongue darts out, licking the remaining beer off his lips, and he shakes his head, trying to settle his thoughts and clear them of these intrusive ideas. He has no idea where they’re coming from. Or maybe he has, but doesn’t really want to think about it.

“... and the body,” Jensen sighs pensively, shaking his bottle to make the golden liquid whirl around the inner walls. He narrows his eyes and looks into the bottle, staring at the light from above dancing on the surface with the amazement of the first astronauts on the Moon. “Have you seen the body?”

“I might have,” Misha smiles, a wee bit blankly, trying to focus on the man sitting beside him, on his whole being, instead of the small individual parts – like his clear green, now darkened, eyes, rimmed with those impossibly long, dark blonde eyelashes, and full lips, and the dusting of chocolate freckles sprinkled on the bridge of his nose and flushed cheeks – which prove to be unbelievably distracting. Trying to keep his attention on what he’s saying. “Well, some of it.”

“He’s gorgeous,” Jensen tells the golden droplets which are slipping down the chilly, dewy glass. “He’s hot... and he knows that. But it’s not like he, y’know, uses it or somethin’... He just _knows_ that.” He nods to himself, like he’s forgotten he’s not alone, but in a crowded bar, and a lazy, tipsy smile twitches on his mouth. “He’s grown up in those four years. Inside. Outside... And it’s not like I didn’t notice before – ‘cause you can’t really _not_ notice - but one day it just _bang_! slammed me in the face.” To emphasise his point, Jensen whacks his hand over his face, nearly crushing his nose in the process.

“Careful,” Misha warns, reaching for Jensen’s hand to pull it from his head. Jensen doesn’t seem to register the movement or Misha’s touch at all.

“He’s like a Greek God, y’know? Or the sculptures from Rome? The pale marble statues, so smooth to look at, and yet showin’ the strength in all those taut muscles... God, and they say David’s the symbol of a man. I’m tellin’ you that if he... if he saw Jared, he’d take off in shame. Maybe put a toga on too.”

Misha bursts out laughing, imagining the long-life symbol of beauty and youth running off his pedestal to make a space for a new hero, for Jared. Although yeah, he could also imagine a different man taking David’s place.

“And then there are the fuckin’ dimples... No man that sexy should have dimples like a little child. That just... isn’t fair. That’s not natural. That must be against the law.”

“Right,” Misha chuckles, knowing just what Jensen means. “And was there, you know, something before the _bang!_ or was it just the _bang!_ itself?” Misha asks, realizing his fingers are still wrapped around Jensen’s wrist only when he makes a move for the other bottle of beer and Jensen’s arm follows. His skin is warm and soft underneath Misha’s finger pads, and he can feel the rhythmical thumping of Jensen’s heart under his touch.  
He lets go of Jensen’s hand, almost reluctantly, and picks up the beer, taking a long, quick gulp that makes him cough, and nearly forces tears into his eyes.

“Careful,” Jensen parrots with a sly grin, patting Misha on the back; more in a habitual, automatic manner, than in real worry.

“You didn’t reply.” Misha points out when the cough finally abates, settling the bottle back on the bar.

Jensen pulls a few inches back on his bar stool and arches his eyebrow doubtfully, swaying a little because his equilibrium is slightly disturbed with the alcohol rushing through his veins. “You really wanna hear it?” He asks. “Haven’t you had enough?”

“No, no it’s fine... I mean, if you feel like talking, I don’t mind listening.” Misha shrugs casually, not really thinking it’s necessary, or even fair, to mention he doesn’t really care what Jensen’s saying, or is talking about, as long as he _is_ talking. In that quiet, soft voice of his, tinted with the lazy, Texan growl the ‘Js’ are both so proud of, becoming more noticeable the longer they sit there. “It’s not like I’ve got something better to do anyway.”  
He scowls when Jensen pulls a thin cigarette and a silver lighter out of the pocket of his backpack lying on the empty stool beside him. “You smoke?”

Jensen puts the cigarette into his mouth, wrapping his full, pink lips around it, and Misha’s breath just about snarls up in his throat anew. Maybe he’s drunk already. Or high. Or completely out of his mind.

Jensen’s fingers strike out the lighter, briefly piercing the grey cloud of smoke that’s wafting constantly through the entire place. The flame flickers in front of his face, mirrors in his eyes, giving them a glassy, distant look, and Misha wonders why this man just doesn’t notice that while one – albeit for him the most important - person doesn’t see, it doesn’t mean that the others are just as blind.

Jensen draws in a lengthy tinge of the toxic weed and shrugs, letting the air out through his nostrils. It’s a picture that reminds Misha of _Draghetto Grisù_ ; a dragon from old kid’s cartoon he might have, or might have not, watched once.

“Sometimes,” Jensen says. Then raises a warning finger and waves it in front of Misha’s face, almost threateningly. “Don’t tell Jay though, he’d be pissed.” He leans forward, so close that his lips nearly brush against the skin under Misha’s ear, sending sparkles of an electric current along his whole spine, and whispers something that is obviously a secret, but sounds more like a sexual invitation Misha definitely wouldn’t have had the willpower to turn down. “He doesn’t know.”

He draws back and Misha opens his eyes quickly, without remembering when he closed them in the first place, and blinks quickly to clear the haze in front of them. Somehow, he even recalls he asked Jensen a question, which Jensen hasn’t gotten around to answering yet.

Like he remembers it too, Jensen takes another drag and blows a thick circle up to the mirror-padded ceiling, then starts slowly with a gleam of something fragile twinkling in his gaze. “’t was the summer hiatus. After season two. We spent another week up here... mostly just sleepin’ and catchin’ up on the movies we’d missed and stuff. Then we flew back to the States, to Texas.” He takes a long sip of his beer, finishing it up, and then shifts the empty bottle across the bar, signalizing for another two to the bartender. “He was headin’ for a vacation with Sandy – you know Sandy?”

“Yeah,” Misha confirms, nodding thanks to the barman, when the fresh beers are placed in front of them. “Yeah, I mean, I didn’t meet her, but I know who she is.”

“Right,” Jensen nods, as he dusts off the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray. “Anyway, so he was ready to take off to... Maui, was it?” He ponders aloud, drawing his lower lip in between his teeth, while his eyes sweep up, as if he was trying to find the answer in their reflection in the looking glass above. “Whatever was it... he delayed it ‘cause of me.”

Misha frowns confusedly when Jensen trails off, gulping down a half of his beer, then pulling in another long inhale of his cigarette. His voice is even quieter and audibly tainted with sorrow when he continues.

“I got this nasty flu and – I think it was my mom who told him – and he delayed a vacation with his girlfriend and moved into my house.”

Misha makes an amazed, whistling noise and Jensen nods, looking just as astonished.

“Yeah... He crashed in Josh’s, my bro’s old room and... just stayed until I got better... For _ten_ days... We’d play _Halo_ or somethin’, watch movies... He’d help my mom cook – well, mostly just makin’ mess and clutter, but hey, effort counts, right?... He’d watch the game with my dad. He’d stay awake when I couldn’t sleep... talkin’ ‘bout anythin’... or just sittin’ there. And then I just... _knew_. From then on I was... totally screwed.”

Misha blinks, lifting his eyes from Jensen’s moisture dewed lips, trying to pretend he caught at least half of what Jensen had said. “Well, that’s-” He shakes his head, not really knowing what it is, besides _epic_. “That’s...”

“... Jared,” Jensen finishes for him, fingering the neck of the beer thoughtlessly. “That’s just Jared.”  
His thumbnail catches on the label of the bottle, and he starts picking at it, impatiently and urgently, like tearing it apart could settle the madness and confusion inside him. Finally, he rips the paper open and tugs it off the glass, and an odd, satisfied smile spreads across his mouth.

“What did Sandy say about the whole thing?” Misha asks as he leans across the bar to order two shots of something stronger, because they both apparently need it. Although each for a different reason. “Somehow I doubt she was really excited.”

“He paid for her to have two weeks in London.” Jensen sighs, fatigued, and reaches for the small glass, draining the drink in one breath. He barely winces at the burning sensation searing his throat. “With her BFF.”

Misha follows a second later, unlike Jensen, he gasps, “Shit.”

Trying to hide the giggle (albeit unsuccessfully) behind the cloud of grey smoke, Jensen takes in a long draw, and then crushes the rest of the cigarette in the ashtray.

“Why don’t you tell him?” Misha suggests, and the smile disappears off Jensen’s face like it’s been erased.

“What?! Are you… nuts?”

“More nuts than you?” Misha snorts amusedly. “You being a handsome man, who could be practically anywhere, with anyone, but instead is sitting in a bar, drinking away his pain, and languishing for a guy who’s everything but what he wants him to be. While he pretends he’s cool with everything the other guy does, or doesn’t, do, even though he’s constantly thinking about what he and his girl are doing right this moment. Where she’s touching him right now. How smooth his skin really is underneath her palm.”

Jensen’s eyes settle on Misha, as if he can’t exactly process what he’s saying, and instead is trying to read it from his face, and he quirks his eyebrow bemusedly.

Misha looks away quickly, wondering where all those words actually came from. When he looks back, Jensen nods very slowly, struggling to absorb Misha’s words, yet scowling at the picture they drew.  
“Are you tryin’ to make me feel better… or completely miserable?” He asks eventually, a little irritably.

Misha raises his hands up in an innocent gesture. “I’m just saying.”

“Indeed.”

“You should tell him.”

“No,” Jensen shakes his head, rolling the empty glass between his fingers and over the bar top. “No, I can’t. I can’t lose him.”

“And who says you will? What if you’ll only gain something more?”

“What?”

“What if he likes you too?”

“No,” Jensen condemns resolutely. “No, he doesn’t. Not like this… What Jay feels is what you see on his face... I see nothing like that.”

Misha sighs, seeing it’s apparently completely useless, and nothing but a waste of time trying to persuade Jensen of something he’s too stubborn to see, or even consider.

“I don’t believe you. You’re brave, apparently not afraid of taking risks, and yet so scared of being rejected that you won’t allow yourself even the tiniest spark of hope?”

Jensen sets the glass onto the table with an audible tap and reaches for the unfinished beer instead. “I guess not.” He chuckles then, bitterly, sounding a little hysterical, “I’m pathetic, right?” He asks, more to the half-empty bottle than Misha. “There are so many much worse things goin’ on around. Terrible. Terrible things... and I’m sittin’ here, cryin’ my eyes out because of my best friend, who’s ... unfortunately nothin’ more than that.”

“What about a broken heart?” Misha propounds with a grin, wanting to also point out that there are no tears. But maybe it’s only a question of time. “They say that those wounds take the longest to heal.”

Jensen eloquently decides to stay quiet, only shoots Misha a slightly unbelievable look.

“You’re not pathetic.”

“I am.” Jensen sticks to his guns, slurring his words. For the first time, Misha can truly hear the consumed alcohol reflected in Jensen’s voice. “I _am_ pathetic. And drunk... And drunk and pathetic.”

“Maybe we should get you some air. God knows I need to clear my head too.” Misha says as he slides off the chair and reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for a wallet. He slaps Jensen’s hand with it as Jensen tries to grab his own wallet. “Don’t you dare, I dragged you out here - I pay.”

“Whatever,” Jensen mumbles, jumping off the chair. His balance wobbles a little, and he grabs the edge of the soiled bar to keep himself from kissing the not-too-clean floor.  
“Hey, you-you made me drunk,” he claims, surprised and thunder-struck, as he points at Misha with a raised finger, and picks up his backpack with his other hand, throwing it over his shoulder. With so much energy, the bag nearly flies over his shoulder and lands on the ground, and Misha laughs, realizing he’s in fact a bit drunk too. Because it definitely wasn’t _that_ funny.

“That so?” He asks as he pulls from the bar, heading for exit.

Following him out, Jensen sounds even more surprised at his next discovery, “You made _yourself_ drunk.”

“Didn’t notice.”

 

Once outside, Jensen leans heavily against the graffiti upgraded wall and closes his eyes, breathing in the fresh air of the late evening thirstily.

Misha eyes him worriedly, “You okay?”

Jensen cracks one eye open and sighs. “Yeah... I think, yeah... I mean, no. I don’t think so...No.”

It’s so honest it clenches Misha’s heart. And not just the words, but also the fact that Jensen’s talking to him, with him, about what he feels, how he feels, although there are people around there who’ve known him for a longer time. Whom he should trust more. It makes something inside Misha’s stomach flutter. Jensen looks vulnerable, like Dean in his weakest, most honest moments, but even more so, since there is no script to read and follow.

“Hey,” he smiles gently as he moves from beneath the streetlamp and closer to Jensen. “I know it doesn’t look like it right now, but it’ll be better in the morning.”

“Is that what _they_ say?”

Misha nods, caught, “I’m afraid so.”

“ _They_ suck,” Jensen utters, closing his eyes again. “Don’t trust a word _they_ say.”

“I’ll keep it in mind... So, I guess I’ll get us a cab?” Misha asks as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, tugging his cell phone out. He stops and looks up confusedly when only silence comes from the shadows Jensen’s almost completely stashed in. “Jensen?”

Jensen’s face is too shaded for Misha to read his expression, but his eyes remain closed, and the deep, rhythmical breathing that causes his chest to rise and fall slowly makes Misha believe that Jensen’s not completely awake.

“Jensen, are you asleep?” He questions, amused, and at the same time feeling bad for disturbing him if he really is. Although the slowly cooling brick wall is seriously the last comfortable place he could choose for dosing off.

“Nah,” Jensen yawns and opens his eyes at last, looking around as though trying to remember where he is and what he’s doing there. He pulls from the wall with a deep sigh, and a shake of his head. “You mind if we walk a few blocks? I want to... I need... Hell, I don’t really know what I need, but um-”

“Hey, that’s not such a bad idea actually.”

“You think?” Jensen snorts, unconvinced.

He takes one wobbly step forward. Two. Then he staggers, tripping over something, which is apparently his own foot, and falls, landing right in Misha’s arms, with a soft, surprised “Hmpf.”

And suddenly he’s close. Too close. Too beautiful. And smelling too good; a heavy, reckless taste of cigarette smoke and beer, with a hint of whiskey, and fresh soap. And his lips, so full and soft-looking, too tempting to taste. His eyes sparkle with a little drunken twinkle, and they look almost black, the emerald green only a thin, barely visible line.

And then, somehow, the lips are right there. Under Misha’s. Warm and smoother than they seemed, and Jensen’s breath hitches with an audible, stunned noise coming from the back of his throat. His backpack thuds onto the concrete, unheeded.

Surprised at his own courage and audacity, Misha steps back, mumbling apologies, a litany of jabbered words that carry only one thought, but barely hold any meaning at all.

“It’s okay,” Jensen breaths out, blinking quickly as he tries to see through the darkness that has spilled around them, but still looking more than a bit unfocused.

He doesn’t even look that surprised at the fact he’s being kissed by Misha, more like surprised that he’s the one being kissed, after all the superlatives with which he described Jared.  
“It’s okay,” he repeats quietly, as he reaches for the sleeve of Misha’s jacket to pull him back. “It’s okay.”

His warm, whiskey-tainted breath ghosts across Misha’s lips, titillating, and it’s so distracting Misha can’t make himself stay where he is and refuse the temptation, even though he knows it’s wrong. Although he knows that Jensen doesn’t really want this, doesn’t want _him_.

“Jensen, I’m not - I’m not him,” he reminds numbly, even as he moves forward and puts his spread palm over Jensen’s slightly out of rhythm heartbeat, like it’s not obvious. Like Jensen doesn’t know, can’t really tell the difference himself.

But Jensen only tightens his grip on Misha’s jacket, until Misha can feel the strength in his tug as Jensen tries to get him back where he was a moment ago, and leans in, pressing his slightly parted lips on Misha’s. “I know,” he whispers hoarsely.

It’s not cool. It’s not right. Not right at all. But it feels good. _Too_ good. And Misha’s not strong enough to fight the need to venture on, to avail himself of this unique, unrepeatable moment, and just enjoy the ride, while his proper manners and a good breeding are on holiday. Before his brain has a chance to catch up with the rest of him, his fingers curl in the fabric of Jensen’s hoodie, stretched across his chest, and drag him closer. Misha’s tongue gets bolder, and pushes against Jensen’s lips, opening them up further and slipping inside, to finally feel, to taste.  


Jensen moans, and Misha can only echo that noise when the velvet heat and sharp flavour of alcohol hits his senses, completely clouding his mind. He lays his palm on Jensen’s cheek, feeling Dean’s days old stubble scratching his skin slightly. He follows the line of one high cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, and tips Jensen’s head to the side slightly for better access. Jensen’s eyes slide closed slowly, shutting off the trust and pain with which they were looking back at Misha, and he sighs, relaxing into Misha’s touch, succumbing to his slow, tentative kiss. He rests his other hand on Misha’s forearm, wrapping his fingers around the leathery sleeve, like he’s still unable to decide whether he wants to pull him even nearer, or push him away. When the tip of his silky warm tongue brushes against Misha’s tentatively, Misha growls and surges forward, making Jensen stumble backwards, until his back collides with the brick wall again. He moves his hand down Jensen’s side, inching his fingers underneath the soft cotton of his sweatshirt and over the protruding bump of his hipbone, pulling their bodies closer. The hot, soft skin under his finger tips makes his hands tremble. The groan that breaks free from Jensen’s control and ghosts in between their lips sends a shiver rushing down Misha’s spine, and he tightens his hold on the other man, almost unconsciously. And, damn, Jensen wasn’t supposed to be such a good kisser. Or kiss like this when he doesn’t mean it, it only makes their – or Misha’s - situation all that more painful and difficult.

The light of a passing car illuminates their figures a moment later, and breaks the illusion of privacy that the shadows of the building was providing, and that, along with the need for oxygen, tears them apart.

Desperately trying to remember how to breathe, Misha opens his eyes with considerable difficulty and takes an unsure step back, feeling dizzy and drunk, and definitely not due to the alcohol. He looks up to meet Jensen’s eyes; Jensen’s green, crestfallen and fairly panicked look, fixed somewhere across the street. He’s pale, looking like he’s just seen a ghost. Appearing to be completely sober too. With his lips puffed and tinted with a darker shade of red, his pupils blown and cheeks a little flushed, he’s even more beautiful and sexy.

“Jensen?” Misha asks, rattled, as he shifts his hand up to squeeze Jensen’s arm, trying to get his attention.

“Jared.” Jensen peeps breathlessly.

“Wha-what?”

“It was Jared,” Jensen clarifies, as he shifts his eyes to Misha, who apparently looks rather stupid and dense. And no one should blame him if he really momentarily is. “The car... It was Jared.”

“Oh.”  
Misha turns to look at the car that has just passed them, and frowns when it makes a sharp turn to the left at the nearby cross-road, heading back and towards them. He can feel a hand gripping the tail of his jacket tightly, and he casts a quick glance at Jensen, who’s gone from being pale to looking green, nearly transparent, and incredibly nervous.

The car stops near the pavement, a few metres from them, and once the engine dies the door opens, and Jared gets out.

“There you are,” he says, grinning cheekily at Jensen. He pauses a little, like he hasn’t noticed Misha until now. Which is a bit difficult to believe, since Misha’s actually standing in front of Jensen, as though protecting him from Jared, and from whatever he’s about to do or say. “Misha, hi.”

“Hi.”

“Jens, are you okay?” Jared asks worriedly, checking him out with an intense, curious look when Jensen lets go of Misha finally and steps out of the shadows. “You look... terrible.”

“I-I-I’m... fine,” Jensen stammers, sounding probably as completely unconvincing as he possibly could. “What’re doin’ here?”

“Cliff called.”

“You?” Jensen scowls confusedly.

“Yeah, well, he tried to call you, but you were apparently out of the coverage zone, so he rang me... He had a car accident, but don’t--”

“Is he okay?” Jensen and Misha ask in startled unison, before he can even finish his sentence, and Jared chuckles.

“—panic. He’s fine. It was only a bump, just a ding, but he tried to let you know that he couldn’t picked you up. Gen went home, so I offered to get you... But now it looks like you’ve changed your previous plans.”

Misha looks from Jared to Jensen, wondering whether it sounded that prickly only to him, or to Jensen’s ears too. It’s hard to say though, because Jensen’s expression has barely changed at all. He’s still tense, as if expecting to be punched.

“Yeah, I kind of corrupted him.” Misha admits, for some unknown reason finding their situation unhealthily amusing. “Are we in trouble now?”

Jared titters, a sudden, unexpected sound that clearly surprises even him, and then he shakes his head. “You’ll have detention on Monday. Both... But it‘s kind of late now, so, you headin’ somewhere, or can I take you home, Jen?”

It’s the nickname Jared uses, the shortened version of Jensen’s name that other people rarely use, spoken with such ease and so naturally that makes Misha realize that this is not his place to be anymore. That his time with Jensen passed the moment Jensen recognized the sound of the tires of Jared’s car, even through the haze of their kiss, which had become anything but gentle and tentative.

“Misha?” Jared’s voice cuts through Misha’s musing and he looks up at the taller man, puzzled. “Sorry?”

“Want me to drop you at your hotel?”

“I think I’ll take a cab. But thanks.”

“You sure? It’s absolutely no problem.”

“It’s practically on the opposite side of the town,” Misha points out. “I’m sure. Really.”

Jared tilts his head to the side doubtfully, but he nods eventually. “Okay, if you’re sure. Can we go then, Jens?”

Jensen looks from Misha to Jared, then back at Misha; hesitating and unsure.

“I-I guess I’ll wait in the car,” Jared offers, apparently trying to be as stealthy as he can master. “Good night, Misha.”

“Night, Jared.”

Kicking a rounded pebble mindlessly with the toe of his shoe, Jensen follows Jared with his eyes until he closes the door of the car. Then he darts his gaze back at Misha, guilt and remorse painted on his face. “Misha, I... I’m-”

Struggling to ignore the goose bumps that just the sound of Jensen’s voice drawing out his name has poured out across his skin, Misha gives a friendly smile. “I know and I... knew. It’s okay. Just... go home. And... think about it. He really cares about you; you shouldn’t be giving up on it if you’re not completely sure about what he feels.”

Jensen draws his bottom lip in between his teeth and nods. He looks tired, and much younger, except for his eyes, which seem to have grown old. “Thanks... for listenin’. For everythin’.”

“No problem,” Misha assures him, hoping the words don’t sound as bitter as they taste on his tongue. “Good night, Jensen.”

“Good night.” Jensen’s voice is a wee bit more than a whisper, and when he smiles it looks like he’s chewing on a lemon. He jerks his head in a silent greeting and turns away, walking out of Misha’s space and his night.

“See you on Monday, _Jen_.” Misha mumbles for himself, before he makes himself look away from the receding figure at last, and fishes his cell phone out of the pocket of his jacket.

Straining his ears to catch at least a portion of the conversation between Jensen and Misha, which Jared can only, and hardly, read off their lips in the rear mirror, Jared finally realizes it’s awfully rude to spy on his best friend, and turns on the radio. The blast of percussion and electric guitars beating from the speakers makes Jared start up, and the window-panes rattle. He lowers the volume and rests his hands on the steering-wheel, drumming his fingers against the leather to the rhythm of the old _Rolling Stones_ song. His head is throbbing with zillions of questions, and the mess of the emotions that have crowded up inside him, ever since his eyes had caught, and then lingered, on the two people that the beams of his car pulled out of the darkness of the back street.  


Confusion and amazement almost overplay every other feeling, and the faint undertow of _something_ rolling in his stomach definitely isn’t jealousy. Because why should he be jealous? And of whom actually? Of Misha, the confused angel, who is actually anything but, and whom everybody loves like a big, friendly teddy bear? Or of Jensen, his best friend, who was just five minutes ago pressed against a cracked brick wall, shielded by Misha’s body, his soft, freckled skin and full lips caressed by searing, heated touches and... _Oh,God_ this isn’t helping. Growling in frustration, Jared lets his head loll backward against the backrest, and he closes his eyes, willing the loud music to soothe his nerves.  
   
He’s half asleep when the door opens with a squeaking noise, and Jensen gets in to the car. Jared opens his eyes drowsily and looks up, but Jensen’s deliberately avoiding his gaze. He sinks into the seat, as if trying to be even smaller and more unseen, and pulls the seat belt across his chest, locking it with an audible _click_. Eyes centred onto the road ahead, only partly illuminated by the street lights and the lights of Jared’s SUV, Jensen draws his backpack tightly to his body, visibly crawling into that protective shell of his, and shutting himself off.

Jared nods to himself, accepting Jensen’s silence, although he knows he won’t be able to keep his unspoken promise for too long, and starts the engine. He pulls from the sidewalk and lines his car up with the late night traffic of Vancouver.

Three songs later, Jared glances at Jensen, who feels like he’s been turned into a white marble statue and then sat in the car, or like he’s been fossilized sometime in between the traffic lights switching from red to yellow. He keeps staring out the windscreen, following the red car rear-lights and street lamps with unfocused eyes and an absent mind, and playing with the lace of his hoodie.

Only then does Jared realize that Jensen’s wearing the sweatshirt that he gave him for the Christmas before last. It’s all black, with just a small white logo on the left breast saying _The Lone Star State_ , and a bigger one on the back that reads _Made in Texas_. It looks different now though, because it embraces Jensen’s body just that wee bit firmly, and stretches across his chest and biceps tighter than it used to. The hours that Jensen has, not entirely voluntarily, spent at the gym are finally starting to show. It’s pretty worn out already, which Jared never noticed until now, and it makes him smile, for it means that Jensen likes it. And no, Jared really doesn’t know why it suddenly matters so much.

“So,” Jared says when he can’t stand the silence for any longer. He clears his throat, finding his voice oddly raspy. “You... and Misha?”

The wistful echoes though, since Jensen’s evidently turned into at least two of the three monkeys he’s got for his laptop wallpaper that says: _“I can’t see. I can’t hear. I can’t talk_.”

“Jensen?”

“I don’t want to talk ‘bout it,” Jensen replies eventually. His gaze doesn’t even flicker from the road ahead.

“Why not?” Jared frowns, hungry for some information. Thinking that he actually deserves some kind of an explanation. “It’s cool, you know? If you like him.”

“Drop it,” Jensen warns. And then a miracle happens. He moves. But only to reach his hand out and increase the volume of the current song; that being R.E.M.’s _Supernatural Superserious._ Not because he likes it that much, although the song kicks ass, but obviously trying to cut Jared off. Smooth.

Jared will have none of that though. He lowers the volume again, which causes lines to furrow Jensen’s forehead, but nothing more. He doesn’t look at Jared, doesn’t even stir to push the little button a few times and raise the sound again.

“All I’m sayin’ is that it’s been a while since you and Danneel broke up,” Jared stops at the red light and turns to look at the man beside him briefly. Jensen’s face clouds at Jared’s words, and lights up with the orange and blue of the near bar neon sign. “I mean, if you want to start dating again, maybe it’s time to move on.”

It’s been five months. Exactly five months, two weeks and four days, since Jensen came home, just before the dawn, drunk and sad, and suffering from a sudden inability to talk. The silver ring that had hung on the thin chain around his neck for the last few months was suddenly gone, leaving an empty place that felt like a missing tooth, which the tongue seeks over and over, but meets only raw skin and a gap. It took more than three hours and four shots of tequila before Jared had wormed answers out of Jensen. He didn’t cry. Jared’s shoulder, where Jensen’s head was settled, remained dry, unlike when it was the other way around, and Jensen’s fingers had been stroking Jared’s hair soothingly. Jensen’s voice was quiet and raspy, his gestures slow and tired as he acquainted Jared with his last, and _last_ , date with Danneel, explaining the reasons behind her decision to call it done between them. There were more pleas, some more understandable, some less. In the end it seemed it was the distance that pushed them apart, but Jared was convinced there was still something else. Something that Jensen didn’t want to talk about.

“I’m just surprised,” Jared voices as he starts driving again. “I didn’t know you liked... guys.”

“I don’t like them,” Jensen objects tonelessly. “I don’t like _him._ Not like this. It was a... mistake.”

Jared’s eyebrows meet in a confused line. Mistake? Jensen? “Does he know?”

“Know what?”

“That it didn’t mean anything.”

“Not like it’s your damn business,” Jensen hisses, quite probably talking to the tiny dead fly smashed onto the glass in front of his eyes. “But yeah, he knows.”

“How come?”

“Could you stop?” Jensen asks. His voice is louder, giving away the irritation and anger that are bubbling inside of him. “Or if you really can’t stop talkin’, then stop the car, and I’ll walk the few blocks, ‘cause I really don’t want to discuss this right now.”

“Sorry,” Jared shrugs innocently, although he’s honestly more amused than sorry. And definitely more and more curious.

He’s quiet for a while. He tries to focus on the driving, on the scenery of the night painted town passing by the window, on the song playing on the radio, he really does. But his attention keeps slipping to the green-eyed man in the passenger seat, who is so quiet it looks like he’s not even breathing, and to the _thing_ he shared with Misha, and refuses to talk about. He’s got the right not to talk, of course, and keep his personal things to himself, but he should know better than to believe that Jared will stop, not until he breaks Jensen’s bubble of silence, and finds out what’s going on with him.

“Sooo... what was it like?”

Jensen reaches for the handle of the door even before Jared realizes he’s spoken, like his usual talking before thinking.

“Hey, whoa-wait!” He panics, although he should have known that Jensen wouldn’t actually open the door, and flicks the SUV off to the side. He stamps onto the breaks so quickly it pushes them both forwards, and then backwards when the car comes to a halt with a hideous squealing, raising a shower of gravel off the roadside. “Alright, alright, stay,” he breathes out, switching off the engine. He shakes his head to push away the freaked out thoughts and faces Jensen, who appears to be only slightly shaken. “Okay, Jen, I’m sorry. Okay? I am. You don’t want to talk ‘bout it, fine, we won’t. _I_ won’t.”

Jensen jerks his head in a silent gesture of approval, and pulls his hand off the door.

“So, you’re really not talkin’?” Jared asks, injured. He’s starting to get angry, because he doesn’t understand anything. He doesn’t know what exactly happened during the few hours Jensen spent with Misha. Has no idea what’s happening with Jensen right now. “To me? But why, what did I do?”

Jensen sighs and turns his face away, staring out the side window at the lit sandy paths of the otherwise darkened park.

“Will you at least look at me?”

Jensen’s eyes shift to the side, and then up at Jared and away, so quickly Jared barely has a chance to even register the green of his look. He resists the urgency to grab Jensen’s shoulders and shake him until he finally gets some explanation or reasons, or to grasp the string of the hoodie and wrap it around Jensen’s neck, just a little tighter, and strangle the answers out of him. He punches the steering-wheel with his clenched fist instead, “That’s not enough!”

He watches Jensen swallow, so hard it’s practically audible, and lift his gaze off the dashboard. It takes another several seconds before Jensen pulls his head round to Jared, and when he does so, his eyes are closed. His eyelashes quiver slightly. He draws in a heavy sigh, and bites down onto his slightly bruised lower lip, letting it out again. When he finally opens his eyes, Jared can see they’re filled with tears; a single tear drop is forming in the corner of his left eye.

Rage is immediately replaced with confusion and worry, and Jared reaches out to brush his fingers down Jensen’s cheek. “Jensen? Jen, what’s wrong?”

Jensen blinks and the tear falls, copying the contour of his nose and the swell of his upper lip and, no longer tracked, sinks into the dark material of his sweatshirt. “Nothin’,” he replies, as he pulls back, and out of Jared’s reach.

“Nothin’, huh?” Jared repeats mockingly. “That doesn’t look like ‘nothin’’ to me. Did he... did he do something?”  
God knows nothing, not even Him or the powers of heaven, will save him from Jared if he did.

“What?” Jensen questions confusedly, rubbing on his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. “Who? Misha? No.” He sounds almost aggrieved. “Of course not.”

“Then what did? Who did? Jensen... You know you can tell me anything.”

“I’m not sure your ‘anything’ really includes anything.”

Jared scowls, perplexed. “Of course it does.”

“Jared, this won’t work,” Jensen sighs, shaking his head in disapproval as he gathers his backpack and reaches for the door once again. “I can’t. I have to - I need to... I gotta go.”

Jared grabs for Jensen, trying to stop him, but Jensen’s faster and, out of the car before he can even reach him. Jared’s fingertips only brush the denim of his jeans.

Following Jensen out, Jared leans his elbows on the roof of his car, and pursues Jensen’s somewhat unstable steps down the sidewalk. “You really wanna walk?” He yells after him.

Jensen doesn’t reply, doesn’t slow down, and doesn’t even acknowledge Jared’s voice.

“Jensen... It’s still a few good miles. And it’s almost two fuckin’ in the morning!”

Seeing that yelling will apparently get him, them, nowhere, and certainly not home, Jared yanks the keys out of the ignition and locks his car, running after Jensen.

“Jen,” he tries. “Jensen!”

“Go home, Jared.”

“I can’t. Not without you. Not until you tell me what the hell is goin’ on with you!”

Five more quick steps, and Jared aligns his pace with Jensen’s. He grabs Jensen’s shoulders and spins him around, only luckily maintaining their balance so as not to send them both to the ground. “What is it?” he demands. “I don’t know you like this... So weird. So freaked out.

Jensen’s eyes flare with panic and fury, and he shakes Jared’s hands off like he’s disgusted by his touch. He shrinks back a few steps, putting between them the obviously much needed space.

“Tell me now. Tell me.”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?!” Jared snarls, faintly aware of the few pedestrians on the other side of the street. It’s only a group of teenagers, however, who seem to pay attention to nothing but themselves. “What is so terrible you can’t tell it to me? To _me_ , Jen? Don’t you trust me? Why can’t _you_ just open up to _me_ , for a change and let me in? Let me help you? Whatever it is, it cannot be _that_ bad... and maybe it’ll make you feel be--”

“I love you, okay?!” Jensen snaps, exasperated, and so suddenly and loudly, like water rolling down through a ruptured levee, that Jared jerks, startled.

And it’s plain to see that those are the last words Jensen wanted to say. That he never meant to say them. Not aloud. Not to Jared. That they just broke free and flew out of his mouth, under the force of Jared’s snooping, before he could stop them. Before he could even sense them coming. His eyes glisten with unshed tears that he refuses to let fall, fighting to keep the little self control he’s got over himself and his body. But his voice is no more than a raspy, sadness saturated whisper when he continues.

“I love you, and I want you. And you - you’re my best friend and there’s nothin’ I value more than your friendship, but it’s... not enough. I just... I’m selfish, and I want more.” There’s a blush of embarrassment creeping into Jensen’s face, and he throws his hands up in a clueless, resigned gesture. “You turned my world completely upside down. Without tryin’, without even knowin’... And I tried. I really tried. To keep it inside, get over it. Over you. But I’m still where I was two years ago, unable to move... And I’m happy you’re happy with Genevieve - you deserve to be happy - but I wish... I wish it was me... And it hurts. It hurts so bad, Jay.”

He trails off and reels dangerously to the side, as though he’s only now realized what he’s said, and how unexpectedly his secret has been unmasked, and the realization has made him sick and drained all colour from his cheeks. He gasps for air and closes his eyes against the waft of nausea which Jared can almost see crashing upon him, and then slumps down onto the kerbstone, heavily, boneless. “Fuck.”

Jared feels like someone has just thrown a bucket of ice water on him. The concrete quakes underneath his feet suddenly, like he’s standing on a very tiny strip of ice that threatens to crack at any second and send him into the freezing lake in the middle of a Canadian January.

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t think he’s at all capable of forming any words that would make him feel any better. That would make the broken man in front of him feel any better. He opens his mouth, but no words, not even a sound, come out, and it’s not even surprising, because his mind is just as empty, and completely useless. Something inside him flutters and aches at seeing his friend, his best friend, shake despite the warm night, and sob quietly on the sidewalk because of him. Because he just, or possibly long ago, broke his heart. Because he just didn’t know. Didn’t see. Because he just doesn’t feel the same.

He wishes he had been able to mind his own business, and stopped prying for once, and simply taken Jensen home and let him sleep it off. But it’s too late now, and Jensen _is_ his business, and he deserves to be taken care of when he needs to be. Unfortunately, right now is Jared probably the last person who’d be able to relieve Jensen’s troubles and pain.

Jared moves at last, somehow, putting one foot in front of the other until he’s standing before Jensen, who’s got the tattered backpack pressed to his chest like a shield, and is staring ahead, his gaze faraway.  
Taking a deep breath, Jared squats down in front of Jensen, filling the line of his sight, but achieving nothing, because Jensen’s eyes bore right through him.

“I’m... sorry.” He whispers, knowing that it’s lame and that it’s not going to make anything even slightly better, but having no idea what else to say. What else to do.

“Save it,” Jensen murmurs, without as much as blinking. “I don’t need _that_.”

“I know,” Jared sighs, reaching out to stroke Jensen’s knee soothingly. He stops before his touch even lands, and pulls his hand back. “But what do I do? What do you want me to do?”

“Love me?” Jensen breathes plaintively, as he looks up from the buildings opposite and at Jared.

It’s the first time during the night that he’s met Jared’s gaze properly, purposefully, and for a moment Jared wishes he hadn’t. Love hurts, and Jensen’s eyes yell the truth so loudly it makes Jared’s heart falter with guilt and remorse.

“Jen, I’m--”

“Joke,” Jensen snorts humourlessly. A lie through which is so easy to see, that Jared wonders whether Jensen really believes he’s going to buy it, or is simply tired of the facade he used to put on to hide what he really feels. “Just a joke.”

Jared nods with a pretended understanding, and grins, so bitterly and crookedly, it makes his cheeks ache.

“There’s nothin’ you can do,” the other man remarks, dropping his gaze once again. “You can’t _do_ anythin’. It’s not like it’s your fault, after all.”

Maybe it’s not. Maybe it is. Maybe Jared was putting out some signals that got carried over and translated wrong? All his teasing and joking. All the touches and heart felt hugs that came naturally and spontaneously from him, meaning nothing more than _Great scene, dude. Thanks, man. Great you bought the extra candy. I’m glad I’m not alone in this nutty business, in this foreign country,_ but could have meant so much more to Jensen. Maybe he’d been playing with Jensen, and his feelings, without intending to do so? Without realizing it? He’d even made fun of Jensen, joking about his crush on him, never knowing how deep his words might have been cutting.

But Jensen _knew_. He knew that he was alone in this. That Jared didn’t love him. Not enough. Not like that.

“Jensen?”

“Hm?”

“Is this the reason why you wanted to move out?”

Surprised, Jensen jerks his head up.

They haven’t talked about it for a while. Haven’t actually _talked_ about it at all yet. It was just something that Jensen uttered between two sips of his dark coffee on one, absolutely random, Saturday morning. Between his eyes sliding down the cell with his horoscope, horrorscope as he calls it, and to the field with the current course of the US dollar. Just a simple remark that made Jared sputter his orange juice onto the wooden kitchen table.

Jensen shakes his head, and then nods. Then he shrugs.

“You still want to move out?”

“Yeah.”

“Stay,” Jared says simply, as he sits down onto the pavement in front of Jensen. Jensen’s forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Stay, please. I understand it’s not easy... and I’m really sorry if I’m hurtin’ you with Gen and... and all, but... I don’t wanna lose you. You’re my friend. The best damn thing this country at end of the world gave me... and if I lose you, I don’t know... I may not be feeling it the way you -- I may not feel what you feel, but... I need you here. I-I know you’re not plannin’ to move to Australia or somethin’, that you’ll still be here, somewhere, but... I’m just scared that if you move away, if you put this distance between us, we might lose it,us... forever... And the brothers? We still have one season in front of us, maybe more, what if we’ll break the _something_ that’s between Sam and Dean, and it’s never gonna work again?”

“What if it’s already broken?”

“Is it?” Jared asks, alarmed.

“I don’t know, Jay.” Jensen puffs a laboured breath, and shakes his head. “I just... don’t know.”

It starts slowly, unobtrusively, with quiet, tiny drops falling from above and pelting against the concrete, in the fresh green leaves of the trees framing the sidewalk. But the rain picks up its strength quickly, and begins a whole new, louder symphony.

Jared springs out to his feet and tugs the black knitted cap tighter over his ears. Jensen doesn’t notice, or simply doesn’t care, huddled into himself and his sorrow, completely oblivious to everything else. The edges of his sleeves are pulled over fingers close-set into the firm material of his backpack. More than anything, Jared wants to wrap his arms around Jensen, like he’s done so many times before, whether Jensen really wanted it, or more likely, didn’t, and shield him from the falling water, from the pain Jensen feels, and which Jared only increases.

“We should go, Jen,” he says gently. More gently than he’d intended.

Jensen doesn’t reply, doesn’t let out the most noiseless sound.

Jared sighs and crouches in front of him. Jensen’s eyes are lowered to the ground, and the moisture collects on his crumpled spikes, trickling down his temples. Without thinking, Jared reaches out, grabs the hood of Jensen’s sweatshirt, and draws it over his head.

Jensen looks up, startled, as though only now acknowledging Jared’s presence, and blinks the water out of his eyes. Or at least Jared hopes it’s the rain, and not tears, that glue Jensen’s eyelashes together, into thick, wet shadows. He watches Jared intently, a bit curiously, looking surprised when he doesn’t pull back right away.

Jared suddenly can’t draw away though; he just stares into Jensen’s eyes, like he’s hypnotized. Thinking how simple it would be just to get lost in those green pools, to shift a little closer, and press his lips to Jensen’s. To know, to feel, to assure himself he’s not hurting him to no avail. That he really has nothing to offer. For a moment, Jared’s brain just shuts itself off, turning off every signal and warning that are telling him not to, that using Jensen like a guinea pig is the worst idea he could possibly get.

It’s not like he’s never noticed, doesn’t know that Jensen’s beautiful; in a completely manly sense of the word, with some faint hints of feminine features that supply his face with an almost childlike fragility. It’s rather difficult not to see the long, dark blond eyelashes, rich like a paintbrush. His deep eyes, the colour of spring grass, or the full lips most girls would kill for. His freckles. His smile. He likes Jensen’s smile, his laughter. He loves _making_ him smile.

He’s so intrigued by his thoughts that he doesn’t realize he’s already got lost. To him it feels like eternity before his lips finally meet with Jensen’s slightly parted ones; pliant, and hot underneath the flavourless layer of rain, and bruised from his own teeth as he just couldn’t stop worrying them, but it must only have been a twinkling, because Jensen doesn’t jerk away. He doesn’t even have a chance to react, until Jared’s right there, in his personal space and nearer, closer than he’s ever been. He breathes in Jensen’s breath, tainted with beer and whiskey, warm, familiar, and the tip of his tongue touches Jensen’s plump lower lip. He pushes tentatively forward, into the tiny chink in between his lips, and Jensen shudders.

And then he panics; the stupidly long eyelashes flutter as he gasps, his eyes are wide open and rattled. His hands fly up to push Jared away, and he shakes his head urgently. “Nonononono, Jared. No. NO.” He stammers the words; they’re practically tripping over each other as his breath just about stops. “What are you - you don’t... you - you can’t.”

He digs his fingers in Jared’s sweater, halting him resolutely, stopping him from moving any closer, but as though it actually hurts. Like it’s physically hurting him to touch Jared, only to stop him and push Jared away from him, because he knows it’s right, instead of pulling closer and opening his mouth, and letting Jared’s curious tongue in, just like he wants to.

He’s an almost heartbreaking picture of inner conflict and confusion. His words and hands push Jared away loudly, giving off all the signals of discomfort and wrong, but the rest of his body speaks in an entirely different language. His eyes kindle with unconcealed want, and his lips move forward, just a little, a barely noticeable inch, seeking Jared’s, following his touch. “Don’t do this to me,” he whispers, struggling to focus at Jared’s face in front of him. “I can’t... Please.”

Jared lets go of the hood, flattening out the creases he’s made worse, and draws back. He blushes, can feel the telltale heat rising into his cheeks, can feel his hands tremble.  
It’s really unnecessary for Jensen to add what Jared’s not supposed to _do_ to him, because the expression in his eyes says it clearly enough. _Don’t show me what I’m missing. Don’t give me what you’re gonna steal in no time, and never give back._ No matter that people say it’s easier to have loved and lost than to have never loved, knowing what you’re losing, or have already lost, always hurts.

“I’m sorry, Jen,” Jared blurts out guiltily. “I’m _so_ sorry – I don’t know what I was ... I didn’t think. For a moment, I just... I’m sorry.”

“You don’t think, Jay,” Jensen objects, his voice cracked and barely audible. “You don’t _try_... You know you do. Or you know ... you don’t. And you--” Jensen pauses, and Jared can see his lips tremble. He wonders whether it’s because Jensen’s eyes have glazed over anew, or it’s thanks to the tickling sensation that is still running across his own lips, like an army of ants from the moment they touched Jensen’s. “--you don’t,” Jensen finishes, concluding it for Jared.

Jared wants to protest, he wants to demur that Jensen _doesn’t_ know what Jared is, or isn’t, feeling, especially when Jared is momentarily so confused he doesn’t even know himself. Because the kiss that came from nowhere, which he was convinced would put an end to any sudden tremor of doubt, has brought none of that, only real confusion and misgiving.

They’re both silent for a while, both lost in their thoughts and their own worlds, barely aware of the relenting rain that has covered the highway and the sidewalk, creating fine rivulets that run along their feet. Then Jensen speaks up, calling Jared’s name, so quietly Jared can hardly hear him.

“Yeah?” He asks, looking up, only to meet the blank top of Jensen’s hood, as Jensen’s head is bowed.

“Go home. I promise to... get there.”

“No,” Jared argues, frowning at Jensen’s request. “Not alone, I’m not. I’m not gonna leave you here. I can’t. You’re...” _Broken._ “...drunk.”

“You sure ‘bout that?” Jensen asks, raising his head to meet Jared’s eyes at last. His face is blank, like a freshly painted wall, wiped of any glimpse of emotion. “’Cause I feel completely, painfully sober.”

“Well, that’s only a feeling.”

“I’ll get a taxi, okay?” Jensen suggests.

“Okay, give me your phone.”

“What? Why?” Jensen moves to defensiveness in a second. “I think I can call a taxi myself, thank you very much.”

“I just wanna be sure...” _Oh_. He really needs to start thinking first.

Jensen stands up and shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. When Jared gets to his feet too, Jensen tilts his head to the side slightly, looking at him in disbelief. “You wanna be sure I’m gonna call myself a taxi and go home, and not jump off the closest bridge?”

Jared frowns, “I didn’t mean – That’s not what I was thinkin’.”  
Really. He didn’t think Jensen _would_ do something like that. Jared’s sure of that. But then again, he hadn’t seen Jensen was in love with him either.

“Well, we’ve been picked up for another season,” Jensen reminds coldly. “I’m not gonna breach my contract.”

Oh, that has made Jared feel _so much_ better.

Jensen’s gaze slides to the ground, to the vibrating circles that every petite raindrop creates on the level of the several puddles spread around them. “I just need...” He meets Jared’s look with a sigh, and ceases; like he’s seeing something unexpected, surprising, on the man in front of him. “I want...” He looks panicked all of a sudden; love, want and despair showing openly on his face, his voice rough and eyes dark, darting over Jared’s face, and bringing out all that he’s struggled to keep inside. As if his usual protection and evasive techniques have stopped working right now. As if he’s just too tired to keep his mask on for any longer. “I-I-I need some time alone.”

Struck by the heat in Jensen’s gaze, something that he’s never seen there before, Jared nods jerkily. “O-okay. I’m... Okay, whatever you want.”

* * *  
Two hours later, and Jared is still wide awake. He lies in his bed, on the creased sheets that he can’t stop pulling over himself one minute, and then kicking them off his legs a minute later. Watching as the lights of the occasional passing car glide over the ceiling, and waiting. He keeps jerking with every sound, even the most random noise that breaks the silence of the late night, starting up when the timber floor creaks underneath the weight of his dogs, who are just that restless and don’t want to settle down. They’re both usually sleeping by now, but are both, spectres wandering through the house instead, there and back, running up and down the stairs to check on Jared, and then inspect Jensen’s room, repeating their stubborn circle over and over, unable to understand that their other daddy isn’t at home yet.

Finally, after another thirty minutes or so, there’s the sound of a key slipping into the keyhole, and one pair of feet echoing through the extensive hall. Harley leaps off the rug outspread in front of Jared’s bed, and rushes out of the room, almost tripping over Sadie in his haste.

Jared sits up with a yawn, and holds his breath following Jensen’s walk through the house. He can hear Jensen let out a startled gasp, knows that he’s pressed against the wall with four strong paws as the two dogs attempt to suffocate him with their endless, unconditional love. He hopes to hear Jensen laugh, he always laughs with them, but nods when it’s not happening, knowing it’s too soon. Knowing that Jensen is, unlike him, a melancholy drinker.

Jared stands up when the door of the other bathroom bounces closed, and Sadie and Harley run up into his room again, wordlessly complaining that Jensen has shut them out. Smiling, Jared pats them on their heads, commiserates, then leaves them where they are and heads into the kitchen.  
   
A while later, Jensen opens the door of the bathroom and jumps when Jared pulls from the wall and out of the shadows, with all the elegance of a phantom. Jared can see Jensen’s whole body, every muscle at once, tense, and they don’t relax in the slightest when he sees it’s only Jared. Quite the contrary it seems. He’s wearing only a white towel tied around his jutting hips, and trickles of water that roll down his chest and flat stomach, and a veil of embarrassment in his eyes. There are a few bruises on his pale skin, covering his upper arms and waist, slowly but surely colouring to shades of greenish blue and dark purple. A little piece of Dean that Jensen’s carrying from the set which, fortunately, doesn’t resemble the injuries that the older Winchester received in his last fight, not even close.

“Here,” Jared says, handing Jensen a glass of water, and opens his palm to offer two pills of Advil to ease the headache that he’s sure will arrive, sooner or later.

“Thanks.” Jensen takes both with a nod, and then he turns around, heading for his bedroom. He pauses after a few steps and turns to look back at Jared, who hasn’t moved a single inch yet. “Jay... I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have dropped it on you like this.”

Jared blinks, perplexed. “Don’t... worry ‘bout it.”

“I know it might not be that easy, but I hope... I hope it won’t change anythin’ between us.” Jensen murmurs, sounding young and unsure, and so tired it seems to be a miracle he’s still standing.

“Of course not,” Jared replies quickly; so quickly, and without any hesitation, that it surprises even him. “I mean-I... y’know, I mean-”

“I got it,” Jensen nods with an almost unnoticeable hint of a smile. “I think. Night, Jay.”

“Good night, Jensen.”


End file.
